


Death’s Patrol

by Darkrealmist



Series: The House of the Dead Poetry [17]
Category: The House of the Dead (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Battle, Canon - Video Game, Character Study, Chases, Father-Daughter Relationship, Free Verse, Gen, Genetics, Gothic, Guns, Horror, Mutants, Poetry, Police, Post-Apocalypse, Prose Poem, Rescue Missions, Science Fiction, Spies & Secret Agents, Survival Horror, Tarot, Wordcount: 100-1.000, Wordcount: 100-500, Wordcount: Under 10.000, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21611701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrealmist/pseuds/Darkrealmist
Summary: A poem based on the guard duty of Death, set during The House of the Dead III.
Relationships: Sophie Richards/Thomas Rogan
Series: The House of the Dead Poetry [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1200067
Kudos: 1





	Death’s Patrol

Death’s Patrol

Author’s Note: Enjoy the poem and R&R.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of the House of the Dead series.

Summary:

A poem based on the guard duty of Death, set during _The House of the Dead III_.

* * *

Blowing open the padlocked fence, a straight avenue to the EFI entrance chosen in lieu of the parkade.  
Lisa and G retrace retired Rogan’s severed steps opposite the tanker, putting to rest Sophie’s worry.  
The fissure in the arid rock widens. From the crevice the pig heads out, on the beater’s beat.  
A security guard? You gotta be kidding!  
Skull-club raid of the mustached, hare-lipped cop. Clobbering and cudgeling with a one-track mind.  
There goes his hat! And there goes one half his rigid browbeating brow!  
Just passing through, the rotating doors. Whoa! Calm down, there!

An interminable watch, observed by the blue after death.  
Neither glass pane nor metal barrier will stonewall his brash, bashing efforts.  
He’ll add their ticketable craniums to his studded baton, no matter if he becomes red in the face.  
Yet they evade arrest, sliding under a steel slammer.

It is a tactic they won’t get to accomplish twice.  
He doesn’t back off, martial presence persisting. Barricades mean zip, as he plows into them unshaken.  
His heavy, clumping trod resounds wherever the retreating perps set foot.  
Halted on the raised flooring leading to the elevator.  
“When a lady says no, she means it!” Lisa disparages.  
To which G embarrassingly shows his age.

He was eleven, born once, hounding unauthorized personnel to the Information Systems Department.

I cannot give up chasing shadows, for I am haunted by the past paternal.  
What is the ultimate challenge, but to chase shadows back to their uncomfortable origins?

So dogged, a daughter’s concern for her father.


End file.
